


Pressure Points

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: Riddles in the Dark [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arguing, Explosions, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, John Whump, Kidnapping, Major Character Injury, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes Feels, Protective John, Protective Siblings, Sequel, Sherlock Whump, Torture, Whump, and yes it's Milverton not Magnussen, but that's spoilers, or maybe more than that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:09:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every person has their pressure point... Someone they want to protect from harm." - Jim Moriarty<br/>Sebastian Moran is locked away in prison, but he plots to escape and seek revenge on Mycroft Holmes. Meanwhile, Sherlock and John are dealing with a change in their relationship, trying not to fall apart. And as ties are tested and allegiances altered, events unfold in the streets of London that threaten both the Holmes brothers and everyone they care for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two men find a reason to become allies, while two others find themselves drifted apart...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this before we knew the name Magnussen (ie, waaay before series three was out), so I used Milverton, the name from the original Conan Doyle story. Of course, when series three did come out and things happened involving Moran and Milverton/Magnussen and such, I was surprised by the details in both the show and my story that coincided with each other. Basically, I felt slightly psychic. But no, I won't pick lottery numbers for any of you ;)  
> I don't own anything.  
> Please enjoy!

Burn his heart out.  


It was the singular thought in the mind of Sebastian Moran, a harsh, fierce sentence which had become one of the few rational things left in him.  


Burn his heart out.  


He clenched his hands tightly, glaring down into the tea resting on the table before him, imagining that cold, dark factory for the hundredth time. The two chairs under the single light bulb, the blood pooling at one man's feet, the giggles of Moran's only friend.  


His only, and now dead, friend.  


The tea rattled in its saucer, and he gingerly let go, not wanting to spill it and give the guards yet another reason to shoot him dirty looks. He hated those people, hated being under their scrutiny. He had lived a private, rather clandestine life, and the constant surveillance here in prison was maddening.  


He thought back, remembering a single gunshot in the distance. He had looked out the window of the police car that evening, somehow knowing what had occurred. That Jim Moriarty had been shot and killed. What he hadn't known until later, however, was who had killed him. Moran had assumed it was an officer, until a drug dealer on his cell block told him that he had heard it was Mycroft Holmes. Since he had learned this, thoughts of revenge had begun to fester in his mind, boiling rapidly into a solid plan. It became his obsession, then the only thing keeping him alive.  


Burn his heart out.  


Just wait until he got out of this place. Just wait, Holmes.  


 

* * *

  


A pair of forks clattered quietly against plates in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street. For once, both Sherlock and John were eating dinner. But instead of their typical conversation, full of laughter and companionship, there was a steely and cold silence.  


Sherlock glanced up from his plate to see John looking everywhere but back at Sherlock. Scowling slightly, the consulting detective looked back down.  


John finished first, stood and took his dishes to the sink. Sherlock finished a second later, handed his things to John, then retreated into the sitting room. John glanced after him, but still they both stayed silent. Sherlock listened to the sounds of his flatmate washing up and then making tea, as he always did for them.  


Except of course, as had become usual, John only made tea for himself, then headed up to his room. Sherlock ignored him, staring fixedly at his laptop screen. When the door shut upstairs, Sherlock sighed and opened up to John's blog. He clicked on the newest post, unsure why he was torturing himself again.  


_Forgive my rant..._  
Don't you hate it when someone you thought was your friend turns out to be completely different than what you thought they were? It's like they're a different person suddenly.  
Or maybe I was just blind and stupid and didn't want to see it.  
Doesn't matter. Anyway, don't expect me to be posting about any cases in the future. I think I'm done with that sort of thing.  
**5 comments**  
John, is everything ok? Did Sherlock do something?! I'll come and tear him apart if I have to!  
Harry Watson 19 July 20:36  
What's going on mate? If you want to talk I'm free  
Mike Stamford 19 July 20:45  
You don't have to do anything Harry. I'd prefer it actually. But thanks Mike, might take you up on that sometime.  
John Watson 19 July 20:48  
*comment deleted*  
Harry Watson 19 July 20:51  
Language, Harry. Besides, this is none of your business.  
John Watson 19 July 20:53  


Sherlock slammed the laptop shut and frowned. What happened wasn't his fault. This was so stupid, dull.  


John could be such an idiot sometimes.  


 

* * *

  


Moran made his way back to his cell after dinner, but before he got there, a man behind him gripped his shoulder and stopped him.  


"Hey Seb," he whispered. "Heard you have a plan, about what we discussed the other day."  


"What of it, Charles?" he hissed back, teeth clenched to hide the conversation. "We can't exactly do anything in here."  


"No, but we might not have to. Just sit tight. Something might happen in the next few days, and I want you in. You have skills I don't."  


"Charles-"  


"Come on," Moran could virtually hear the smirk on Charles' face. He had gotten to know the man well over the past three months. He had been in prison longer than Moran, but somehow seemed to be completely in the loop with the criminal underworld. Moran didn't know how he did it; he couldn't get any contact with Moriarty's allies...  


"Just sit tight. You won't regret it," Charles murmured, letting go of his shoulder as they reached Moran's cell and he went inside. He turned and watched Charles' conspiratorial grin, wondering what he could be plotting. A flash of excitement shot through him, for the first time since Jim had told him about his riddles scheme. Maybe whatever this new plot was would get him what he wanted: the ruin of Mycroft Holmes.


	2. Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reason for Sherlock and John's falling out is revealed, while Moran and Milverton set their plot in motion...

_Two weeks previously..._

"It bet you wouldn't even care if it had been me there, bleeding and dying and begging for help!"

The way John had said it clearly told Sherlock that his angry flatmate was expecting him to refute it, to tell him that of course Sherlock cared about him, don't be ridiculous. He had been yelling at Sherlock for several minutes now, calling him all sorts of names Sherlock had been accustomed to hearing for years, though not from John. How Sherlock was such a heartless bastard, how he cared about nothing but the case or his own thrills. How Sherlock should have at least shown some sympathy for the victims of this case, especially for the one they had arrived too late to save. That was what had pushed John over the edge, causing to accuse his stoic flatmate of not caring.

But the moment John said this, it was as if he was begging Sherlock to tell him he was wrong about all this, that there was a scrap of humanity in Sherlock's cold heart. Yet Sherlock had never been good with emotions, and the sudden demand that he share them frightened him. How could he possibly express what he was feeling? Didn't John know he was terrible at this, didn't he know Sherlock had no idea, for all his intellect, how to put into words how much John meant to him?

So Sherlock had simply sat there, frozen and silent, his back to John, as he tried to find the words he needed.

"Oh my God, you really don't care."

John's voice was a horrified whisper, filled with hurt and fury. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat, but still he couldn't speak.

"You really don't care about me, you freak," John choked out, sounding on the verge of tears.

Then he was gone, storming out of the flat like always, leaving Sherlock alone with his hardening heart against the insult he hated above all the others, the one he had never expected to hear from John. John, the only one Sherlock had ever let in, the only one he would risk his life for without hesitation, the only one ...

No, just forget it Holmes. He'll leave you, just like everyone else. Don't waste your energy worrying about how to apologize to him. He thinks you're a freak, and maybe you are. But there's no fixing this, just like there never has been before.

But he couldn't stop the scream of frustration that slipped from his lips.

Idiot!

He didn't know if he was talking about himself or John.

 

* * *

 

_Back in the present..._

John was on the way home from work when he received a text from Sherlock. He frowned at the screen of his phone in surprise, since they had hardly been speaking for weeks now. Curious, and hoping his flatmate wasn't just telling him they needed more milk, he opened the text.

_Mycroft just called me. Moran and another criminal escaped from prison. SH_

_What? How? JW_

_They're investigating now. I've asked Mycroft to let me in on the investigation. Just thought you should know. SH_

_Can I do anything to help? JW_

_No. SH_

Well fine. That seemed to settle that. John rolled his eyes and shoved his mobile back into his pocket. He drummed his fingers on his knee, thinking about Moran. The highly-trained sniper had been an ally of Moriarty, and had been caught the same day John and Sherlock had been kidnapped and nearly killed. He had been in prison ever since, and John had been able to sleep well knowing this, knowing that Moriarty's web was surely falling apart with the two heads dead or locked away. But now that Moran was out, John felt a rush of adrenaline and something like fear. He ran his fingers across the scars on his arms from that dark factory and closed his eyes against the unbidden rush of memories.

The lightest patter of rain outside. Moriarty's leering face bent over him. Sherlock collapsed on the ground, a gash in his arm.

Fear. Pain. Blood.

"Give up?" Moriarty's voice seemed so real that John flinched, hand tightening around his own wrist. He opened his eyes and looked back down at the crisscross patter of white lines, and for a moment, he could remember the feeling of the cold knife cutting through him.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was conscious when they burst inside the flat, but not when they left. He could thank the mild sedative, or whatever had been in the syringe Moran had jabbed in his neck, for that. All he - dimly - remembered was hearing a smash, then being carried downstairs and thrown into something, a van perhaps, or the backseat of a car. He tried desperately to stay awake, annoyed he was being kidnapped in almost the exact same way as last time. Obviously he needed to take better precautions in the flat, but in his defense, he had been inside his mind palace when they'd broken in, so had basically been oblivious to what was happening until it was too late.

Idiot, he thought, then passed out completely. The car drove off an instant later, and from the front seat, Moran gave a triumphant smile. Step one of the plan was complete. Now the games could really begin. He hoped Jim would have been proud of him.

 

* * *

 

John was relieved when the cab stopped in front of Baker Street. He paid the cabbie and stepped out, opening the door, then darting up the stairs.

"Hey Sherlock, want to tell me about what's going on with Moran-?" But the room was empty. John frowned, looking around. "Sherlock?"

And there on the floor, a few meters from John's feet, was the remains of Sherlock mobile phone. John gave a sharp intake of breath when he noticed a small slip of paper next to the bits of metal, glass, and plastic. He bent over and read the note.

And it made his blood run cold as once again Moriarty's voice rang out in his ear.

_You think you can save him, John? SM_


	3. Vitriol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes face to face with his foes, and John with the seriousness of their situation...

When Sherlock woke, he woke to excruciating pain. He tried to keep from crying out, disoriented and confused. Where was he, and what was that terrible burning pain on his arm? Instinctively, he retreated deep into his mind, trying to keep himself distant from the agony. The last thing he remembered was being injected with something and being kidnapped. Maybe it would have been better if he had stayed unconscious for a bit longer, he mused from the safety of his mind. Whatever was happening to his body was most certainly not good.

"Sherlock! I know you're awake! Look at me!" came a voice, a rough voice Sherlock thought he might recognize. But the pain was starting to infiltrate even the deepest parts of his mind palace, so he couldn't be sure. He felt his lips purse from the stinging, burning, biting feeling.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and looked up into the face of Sebastian Moran. The sniper smiled at him, and it was a look reminiscent of Jim Moriarty. Sherlock stared back, teeth gritted in the effort to not show his discomfort.

"Don't try to hide it, it doesn't take a genius to figure out it's painful," Moran snorted, looking amused. He knelt down in front of Sherlock, and the consulting detective took the opportunity to glance around the room.

Despite whatever Moran was doing to his arm, he was still able to notice some things about the room. Mainly that even with all his keen deductive skills he could tell nothing truly distinguishing about where he was being held. It seemed to be a completely featureless room, except perhaps the intriguing, slight curve to the walls. But there was no way, especially in the near-darkness, to tell where he was. It was eerily silent as well.

"Hey," Moran said sharply. "Look at me, not at the walls. It's not like looking will help you."

Sherlock grudgingly looked down at him, pleased to feel the pain receding. It was manageable now; if he concentrated, he would be able to ignore it fully. That thought only lasted a few seconds, however, as a renewed bout of searing hurt shot through him. It was so unexpected he gasped, sweat beading out on his forehead as he tried to keep from screaming.

"What are ... are you doing?" he hissed at Moran, who was laughing. He held up a small bottle with a dropper before Sherlock's eyes, filled with a clear liquid.

"Chemistry, Holmes. You're a student of chemistry, aren't you?" he smirked. "This is sulfuric acid."

"H2SO4," Sherlock supplied automatically. "Colorless, odorless, historically known as vitriol. It can be highly damaging to skin, especially if concentrated. So you plan to torture me, is that it? What information do you want from me?"

"All in time," Moran whispered, and there a dangerous edge to his voice, different than the almost playful tone he'd used before. "Right now, you're too defiant. We've got to make you... talkative."

He lifted the dropper from the mouth of the bottle, filled with acid, and slowly brought it to Sherlock's arm, where there already were streaks of ruined skin, made when Moran had awoken him. Sherlock tensed involuntarily, but his arms and ankles were tied to the chair they had placed him in, so he wouldn't have been able to escape if he had tried. Moran hesitated, as if considering.

"You have oddly lovely hands," he commented while Sherlock watched him warily. "An artist's hands, or a musician's... Not the hands you'd expect of a detective. Most people would expect your hands to be scarred from the work you do. Now wouldn't that be a shame?"

The dropper hovered over his left index finger tantalizingly, teasingly. Slowly, Moran placed a drop on the tip, where it instantly started eating away at Sherlock's flesh, making him feel like he had again been dipped in fire and bee stings. The acid burned through at least two layers of skin, but before he could observe more, Moran dipped the dropper back into the bottle, and Sherlock was forced to watch - through his blurring vision - as his violinist's fingers disappeared, replaced by ruined, gnarled things he could barely call fingers.

Moran was laughing. "I thought you enjoyed chemistry, Sherlock!"

 

* * *

 

Sherlock bit down on his lip again, feeling yet another bout of pain shoot through him. How much acid did Moran have anyway?

"Tell me, Sherlock, I'm not going to ask again," Moran hissed, his lips a millimeter from Sherlock's ear. "What is your brother's email address?"

Sherlock found it in him to snort. "What are you going to do, give his computer a virus?"

"Just tell me." This time, instead of acid, Moran used his fists. Sherlock rode out the beating, though there were black spots in his vision and blood on his face. When Moran had satisfied himself, he looked back up at the sniper, feeling genuine hatred for the man.

"Whatever you're planning, Mycroft will find out and put a stop to it. He's more intelligent than I am," Sherlock willingly admitted it, because it was the only hopeful thought he was clinging to at the moment. Mycroft might be able to get him out of this.

He saw Moran reaching for the acid bottle again, the second one he had opened by now, and a jolt of terror coursed through Sherlock's veins like blood. Before his brain caught up with his mouth, he had spouted off the email address frantically, unable to keep the pleading tone from his voice. What was happening to him? He was always so in control of himself, yet here he was, whimpering and begging, giving a criminal what he wanted just to avoid some physical pain. Despicable.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Moran said companionably, smirking at someone over Sherlock's shoulder. The restrained detective tried to turn to see this newcomer, but he didn't have to. Another man, with muscular arms and a threatening aura, stepped around so that the light trained on Sherlock also fell on his face. The mental encyclopedia of criminals Sherlock kept helped him recognize him immediately, but it did nothing to help him feel reassured.

"Charles Milverton," he greeted with a nod. Milverton smiled back, but beneath the welcoming smile, Sherlock saw the ferocity that had earned him the title of third most dangerous man in England, a liar and a blackmailer who had ruined dozens of people's lives. Though now that Moriarty was dead, Sherlock supposed he was now in second place. Second only to Sebastian Moran. Sherlock's luck seemed to need some improvement, he thought ruefully.

"Pleased to see me, Holmes?" Milverton asked, raising a camera and snapping a photograph.

"Not particularly," Sherlock replied laboriously, feeling as if his chest was constricted. Moran seemed to have broken a rib or two. Yes, definitely two, and perhaps cracked another. "What's the picture for, your diary?"

Milverton chuckled, glancing at Moran with an amused look. "Your brother probably wants to see what's going on with you. Maybe I'll send it to John as well. Luckily we already know his email address."

"How?" Sherlock asked before he could stop himself, his heart stilling at the mention of his flatmate. What else did they know about John?

"None of your business."

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes in usual Sherlock-y fashion. Still, he couldn't suppress a twinge of fear. Were they planning something involving John as well? Was he in danger? And what did these two want with Mycroft, really?

So right then and there, Sherlock made a silent vow to protect them both, his brother and the man who might as well be, before these cruel men could so much as touch them.

 

* * *

 

"Excuse me, Detective Inspector?"

John looked up from the depths of his coffee cup to find Mycroft's assistant, Anthea or whatever her real name was, standing in the doorway of Lestrade's office. Lestrade looked up from his computer, and apparently recognized her, since he leaped up instantly.

"Is Mycroft on his way?"

She shook her head, glancing down at the phone clutched tightly in her hand. "He is trapped in a meeting at the moment, but luckily this is his own phone, well a clone of it really."

"He can't come?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows, glancing at John incredulously. "This is his brother we're talking about!"

"What Mr. Holmes is doing is critical, and also classified," Anthea said with an uncertain shrug. "He is not permitted to leave until it is over, which may not be for hours."

"Alright fine," Lestrade gestured for her to sit next to John, turning back to his desk, muttering something about the blasted government. "So what do you have for us? I'd assume it's something on that cloned phone of his?"

She nodded, give John a small, polite smile in greeting. "He received an email a half hour ago and managed to get word to me during the meeting to come relay it to you." She handing the phone to Lestrade, who looked intently at the small screen for a moment, then looked up in worry at John. The doctor immediately knew something was extremely wrong.

"What is it, Greg?" he asked, standing and trying to peer over the desk to get a glimpse of the email. But the DI turned the phone away from him, his dark eyes full of concern and something John thought might be fear.

"John-" he said in an almost pacifying tone. "Maybe it's best if you let us deal with this..."

"I don't think so," John snapped, trying to grab the phone. "He's my flatmate, Greg, and this is almost certainly Sebastian Moran's doing. You've got to let me help you. I know I'm not a consulting detective like Sherlock, but maybe I can do something? Please, what is it?"

He was pleading, and they all knew it, but John didn't care. When he had seen that shattered mobile phone and the taunting message back in Baker Street, his heart had skipped a beat or two, fear jolting through him and immobilizing him. All his anger and frustration with Sherlock faded and were pushed to the back of his mind as the realization came that he had been kidnapped. It didn't matter that Sherlock didn't care about John; John cared about Sherlock, despite trying desperately for two weeks to convince himself otherwise. John cared, whether he liked that or not, and it had never been more clear to him than when he stood in an empty flat in horror, the silence closing in on him.

"Greg," he implored again. "What is in that email?"

Lestrade swallowed, gave an uneasy look at the silent Anthea, then handed John her mobile.

A grainy photograph of a single figure met John's gaze. A dark thin someone was sitting in a chair, illuminated by a single light source somewhere above him. Blood was running down the person's face, bruises spotted the porcelain skin, and something looked terribly wrong with his hands, even in the low-quality picture. The person, obviously, was Sherlock.

John bit his lip so hard he almost tasted blood, and his breath came in shakily. Lestrade gripped his shoulder tightly. He looked up at his friend and saw the same worry, anger, and fear for Sherlock he himself was feeling.

"I'm going to kill them," John whispered, his breath hitching. "We're going to find them, and then I'm going to kill them for this."

He looked back at the photograph, and the helpless, vulnerable eyes of his best friend looked back up at him, boring into him. All John wanted to do in that moment was take Sherlock away, hide him somewhere safe, and never have to see that look on his face again.

"We'll find you mate, I swear."

A buzz in his hand made him jump, and the other two in the room fixed their eyes on it, startled. Another email had appeared, and John looked up at Lestrade and Anthea in surprise and apprehension. His fingers were unnervingly steady as he opened up the email and watched the progress bar fill as the data downloaded onto the phone. The silence in the room was palpable as the three waited with bated breath.

And then the silence was shattered as the sounds of Sherlock's screams filled the room, radiating shockingly clear from the phone's speakers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Cumberbatch, if you ever read this (goodness, I'd be mortified) I apologize for ruining your beautiful hands.
> 
> My lovely readers, if you have time, please leave a comment :)


	4. Location, Location

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is forced to think long and hard about his brother and how to save him, while John is wrestling with his own helplessness. Meanwhile, where is Mycroft...?

Sherlock flinched as they tossed him out of his chair onto the cold tile floor. John watched in horror as the drama unfolded on the screen in his hand. Moran bent over Sherlock, kicking him fiercely in the stomach repeatedly, Sherlock crying out as if he couldn't hold it in anymore.  


John shut the email frantically, looking back up at Lestrade and Anthea, who both looked shaken. "They sent us a live stream of what they're doing to him," John whispered in shock. "Those monsters, they want us to see."  


"Maybe we can trace the signal," Lestrade said hopefully, taking the phone from John.  


"Better than nothing," John murmured, the sounds of Sherlock's cries echoing in his ears.  


Unfortunately, hours passed, and Lestrade's men had no luck hacking the signal nor tracing it, not that John had really expected it to be that easy. It was late now, nearing midnight, and all they had going was a grainy video with only occasional visual and degraded audio. Since he could do nothing more, John just sat in a chair in Lestrade's office, watching the video pulled up on the computer.  


Dammit, he thought fleetingly. Where was Mycroft?  


 

* * *

  


Sherlock had figured out where he was being held. Of course he had, did Moran and Milverton really expect him to not? And he had also figured out there was a camera, the feed probably being sent to Mycroft to torment him. He had noticed Milverton's eyes flicker to a certain corner; so that was the camera then. The only things he didn't know were why they wanted so much information on Mycroft, and what they hinted they were planning for John.  


"Tell me something," Sherlock coughed, feeling the pain of his broken ribs with each syllable. "Why not just blow up Mycroft or shoot him? Why kidnap me and go through this whole torture business?"  


He stopped talking, groaning and pressing an acid-melted hand to his chest. Milverton watched him and chuckled. "We want to burn out the Iceman's heart, of course. Though killing him is, of course, the final objective."  


Sherlock frowned up at him. "My brother doesn't have a heart."  


"Oh?" Milverton smiled. "Yet you're still willing to die for him?"  


"I never said-"  


But another kick to his torso came. To his unpleasant surprise, Sherlock found that Milverton's boots were tipped with metal, and he felt another rib break. He almost wished Moran would come back. Where had he gone, anyway? Sherlock deduced that he must have blacked out for at least a few minutes earlier, since Moran had been there kicking him, and then when Sherlock found the strength to open his eyes after the assault, the sniper was gone.  


"Now that you're finished questioning our motives, I'll ask you again. Where is your brother now? Would he be at home?"  


"That depends," Sherlock coughed. "What time is it?"  


He hid a smirk when, as if in reply, a bell somewhere nearby chimed. Milverton ignored it and checked his watch, though perhaps there was an uneasy look in his eye. "It's midnight now. So he's at home then?"  


"In all likelihood."  


Milverton stared at him keenly. "You're lying. You know something. Where is he?"  


But worry for his brother rose up within him. Memories of their childhood, of times they'd played, times they'd fought, times they'd made mischief together, came to him unbidden. One memory especially, of a blue scarf tossed through the air on a wintry evening, made Sherlock suddenly remember when he had returned the affection Mycroft still seemed to harbor for him. And he knew that no matter what Milverton or Moran did to him, he would not betray his brother. The more recently-developed sibling rivalry between the two, petty and pointless as it was, was of little consequence in the face of Mycroft's destruction. He had to save his brother. Sherlock looked up at Milverton, still feeling the dull sting of his acid burns and the terrible, suffocating ache from his beatings, and he remembered John's voice from months ago, saying these same words to another criminal.  


"Screw you, Milverton," he whispered.  


 

* * *

  


John heard Sherlock say these words, his voice only slightly distorted from the low-quality video, and he instantly remembered spitting the same thing into the face of Jim Moriarty. He felt an absurd, misplaced rush of pride for Sherlock, for him fighting back despite the injuries he'd been dealt.  


He had been watching the video for what felt like ages, seeing Moran and Milverton - an easily identified figure, since the two had escaped from prison together - inflicting all sorts of wounds on John's flatmate. It was a miracle Sherlock had only passed out once, and he seemed relatively unfazed by it at that. Still, though the consulting detective looked on the surface to be unflappable, still needling his captors in defiance, John knew otherwise. Sherlock was in pain.  


Not that he would show the pain, of course. Well physical pain, sure, he had already tossed his composure about that out the window, but it was emotional pain Sherlock would be horrified to reveal. It was practically a sin for him to show what he felt... if he felt at all, John added bitterly. Then he cursed himself. How could he still justify being angry with Sherlock when he was in a situation like this?  


Dismissing that angry train of thought, John reminded himself that if Sherlock were to show emotion, not only would John be very surprised, but it also was most certainly a harbinger of something very much not good. If Sherlock showed emotion, things were spiraling down fast. Then, and only then, would John allow himself to truly be _scared_.  


He leaned back wearily in his chair, glancing at Lestrade next to him, slumped on his desk asleep. A few officers sat sleepily in the main room, along with Anthea, who was trying - and failing miserably - to fall asleep gracefully in a chair. John was the only one truly awake, running on fumes yes, but alert thanks to coffee and adrenaline.  


He turned back to the video after rubbing his eyes vigorously and was startled to see Sherlock's eyes boring into his own. The intensity of his gaze, though hazy with pain and fatigue, made John jump. How had Sherlock figured out where the camera was placed? Stupid question, John; he's Sherlock.  


Sherlock's gaze was only on the camera for an instant before it snapped back to Milverton, his mouth opening to refute yet another demand for information. But that brief moment made John intrigued. What would Sherlock do now that he was aware Scotland Yard and John were watching?  


"I hope you have a plan, Sherlock," John muttered, sighing wearily.  


He and Lestrade had tried their hardest to use their Sherlock skills and deduce where their friend was being held, but unfortunately the video was just degraded in quality enough to make Sherlock and the movements of Moran and Milverton the only visible thing. The room itself, or whatever it may be, was indistinguishable, just darkness. Though the techs in Scotland Yard had attempted to trace the source of the video, it had been run through multiple IP addresses and so would take far too long to unravel to the end, if it could be unraveled at all. By the time it could be, everyone knew it would likely be too late.  


So they were stuck with no useful leads, nothing but this horrible video feed, waiting until Mycroft Holmes finally got finished with whatever rubbish classified business he was doing and got over here to pull a rabbit out of his annoyingly intelligent hat. Who did government business at midnight anyway? John had posed this question to Anthea a half hour ago, but she had brushed him off and he forced to conclude that it must involve someone or something abroad. Honestly, John couldn't care less if the entirety of Asia burned down, he just wanted to get Sherlock out of this alive.  


Really though, where was Mycroft?  


 

* * *

  


"Come on, Sherlock, you are not helping yourself. I can tell you know something, so where is your brother?"  


"Have you checked his home?" Sherlock gasped, worried at how foggy his mind was becoming. Prolonged torture, even to the best of brains, had a cost.  


"I can tell he won't be there. As a, well, business man, I can see when people are lying to me," Charles Milverton replied.  


"You aren't a business man," Sherlock growled. "You've ruined people's lives, families, parents. There's nothing businesslike in what you do. You are nothing but a cold-hearted criminal."  


This speech, Sherlock's longest in a while, was punctuated with frequent chokes and coughs, as his broken ribs shot searing pain up his throat. He feared a lung was scraped - not yet punctured, but nearly. Milverton just watched him struggle through his words, looking faintly amused. He started walking in slow circles around the spot on the ground on which Sherlock was crumpled.  


"You call me cold-hearted? Interesting choice of words..."  


Then a different voice reached Sherlock's ears, emitted from the mobile in Milverton's hand, and Sherlock stiffened despite the protests his body made to the movement.  


"You're a cold-hearted bastard!"  


John. How did they know he had said that in their last argument? How had they heard that? How long had they been listening in on John? Were they following him, keeping bugs on him? Was he in danger somehow? Not John, no please. And sudden fear coursed through Sherlock's veins. Please let him be safe.  


He let none of these thoughts appear on his face, as far as he could manage, but he could not help his eyes flickering to the camera on the wall. "So you know now, he means nothing to me and I to him," he replied calmly.  


"Is that true, Sherlock?" Milverton asked. "I find that hard to believe. He saved your life, did he not?"  


"That was a long time ago," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Times change."  


"So if Moran and I were to ask him about Mycroft, you wouldn't mind?"  


Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. And worryingly, he wasn't sure if that was figurative or literal. His injuries made it difficult to tell. "John knows even less about my brother than I do; don't waste your time on him." Another apprehensive glance at the camera.  


"Fine," Milverton sighed. "I'll take your word for it this time, though he will remain our backup plan..."  


Sherlock's hand tightened on his chest involuntarily. John was still in danger, as was Mycroft. He had to protect them, but how? Betraying Mycroft would save John, yes, but protecting John would put Mycroft in even more danger as Moran and Milverton grew increasingly impatient. But Sherlock could not just choose between his brother and his best friend. How could he buy enough time to get out of this? He needed to tell whomever was watching the video on the other end where he was. Would John be watching? Surely he was; despite their irritation and anger with each other and all the horrible words they'd exchanged, they were still flatmates. And John's morals ruled him and surely would keep him invested in Sherlock's well-being.  


He hoped. But doubt nagged at him nonetheless, as did regret. He may never get to apologize to John, he realized, and that thought stung like acid.  


The bell chimed again, half past midnight now, and Sherlock smirked inwardly, though he could hear Milverton talking to Moran on the phone, a few dozen meters away. They were surely plotting a new way to extract information from Sherlock. He hoped, since it was either that or something dangerous to do with John or Mycroft. But the clock... He could use that to his favor.  


But with all his doubts and worries about John, he would still have to risk sending out a clue. Because who else would understand the message he was about to give?  


Riddles in the dark again.


	5. One Last Riddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock puts his faith in his best friend, but John's rushing toward the danger has unforeseen consequences...

"Even if you get away with this, you won't," Sherlock said suddenly. Milverton looked up from his laptop on a small table, which was conveniently situated just outside the camera's view. Sherlock assumed the man was checking the camera feed being sent to Mycroft, or plotting whatever he was plotting for his brother.

"What makes you think that? Don't test me, this is the last break you will be receiving, so enjoy it while it lasts."

Sherlock glanced at the camera. _Come on John, hear me_. He looked back at Milverton. "Even if you succeed and kill my brother, the government will find you no matter what you do. And as for finding him-" Glance at the camera, then away. "You're running out of time-" Another glance. _Please John_. He couldn't give his flatmate much more than this without being more obvious to Milverton.

Milverton shook his head. "No, Sherlock, we have all the time in the world."

"What," Sherlock coughed. "You think you can just run off after this, hide underground-" One last glance, one last riddle. "Somewhere and get away with this?"

"Well you'll never know, will you?"

Sherlock looked at him, saw the darkness in his eyes, and just hoped he could survive long enough to make sure his brother was safe. He risked one more glance at the camera.

_I hope you can hear me, John._

 

* * *

 

John woke with a start, his fitful sleeping not at all helped along by nightmares of Sherlock and Afghanistan and Moriarty. Breathing hard and shaking the frightful images from his mind, he shifted in his seat and glanced back at the video.

"Even if you succeed," Sherlock was saying, his eyes fixed on somewhere out of the camera's view, probably speaking to Milverton. "And kill my brother, the government will find you no matter what you do. And as for finding him-"

There. Sherlock looked straight at the camera, with that look on his face, eyes boring into John's as if he could really see him. It was as if he was saying, "We both know what's going on here, John." Then barely a half-second later, his gaze had snapped back to its original place.

"You're running out of time-"

He did it again, just a quick flicker of his piercing eyes toward John. The doctor watched, fixated, as Sherlock then seemed to give him a final hint that made the wheels in his brain start turning frantically...

"... hide underground somewhere and get away with this?"

Milverton replied, but John hardly heard it, too busy pondering what Sherlock had just done.

When on a case or questioning witnesses and suspects, everything Sherlock did - however casual it may seem - had a distinct purpose. Even a request for a cigarette disguised a secret motive. And it seemed to be the same here; John just needed to figure out what Sherlock was telling him.

_Alright_ , he told himself, _start logically_. _It's like a riddle, just think it through._

He gazed at John with that look, that infuriating look John had never before appreciated. Hear me, he was asking. But the way he'd gone about it, only shooting the look at John in moments when he sort of emphasized his words, told John ... what?

He grabbed the mouse at Lestrade's desk, trying not to wake the other man, who was still sleeping on top of the keyboard. John clicked the controls of the video, glad the technology at Scotland Yard enabled them to rewind the live stream video like this.

He overshot it, however, going much too far back according to the time stamp. He heard a clock in the video and paused. A room with a grandfather clock, perhaps? Frowning, he shook his head. That might mean nothing. He moved on.

"Finding him... Time... Underground."

Those three phrases, short and not very revealing by themselves, were the three that Sherlock had seemed to want John to notice.

Should John take them out of context? Yes, probably, since finding Mycroft was not one of John's priorities at the moment, and running out time didn't sound appealing either. Finding who, then? Sherlock. Of course.

So finding him really meant find me.

Time... Wait. Time! That clock he had just heard. He rewound the video again, back to the one thirty time stamp, his mind whirling with the possibility that- 

Yes. That was definitely the sound of Big Ben striking the half hour. John had heard it more times than he could count; it could be heard from many parts of London. But it was almost overwhelmingly loud in this video, as if Sherlock was directly under it, the sound reverberating and echoing.

So, time really meant Big Ben?

Wait. The last hint had been "underground". But if Sherlock was so near Big Ben and the Clock Tower that it seemed like he was underneath it, then... Oh, of course.

John silently cursed himself for always seeing but not observing, or in this case, hearing but not listening. The last time John had gone to have drinks with him, Mike Stamford had complained briefly about how part of the Tube system near Westminster was down for repairs after a gas pipe exploded. God, John was an idiot! A gas pipe, ha. Moriarty had once blown up flats and made it look like a broken gas pipe; it seemed Moran had learned to do the same at the feet of his master. And the Tube, when abandoned at night like this, would be the perfect place to hide.

So underground actually meant The Tube.

So what Sherlock was saying was something like, "Find me in the Tube near Big Ben." Which meant the Westminster Station.

John grinned in spite of himself and the mad situation he was in. It wasn't a deduction to compete with anything Sherlock could do, but if it saved his life, that crazy detective had better not complain. He raced out of the silent Scotland Yard, sending a text to Lestrade for him to see when he woke. He didn't want to cause trouble for Sherlock if he burst into the station with an entire squad of Scotland Yarders.

He smiled. Maybe he could get Sherlock out of this mess after all.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock bit back a whimper. His injured ribs were pressing uncomfortably on his left lung, making it feel like he was suffocating slowly. Milverton stood over him again, foot resting lightly on Sherlock's chest as the detective lay on his back, trying to breathe.

"I'm going to ask you one more time before we do something drastic," Milverton threatened, smirking at Sherlock's pain and discomfort. "Where is your brother?"

"London," Sherlock spat derisively. "He's in London."

But Milverton just smiled and pressed ever so slightly harder on Sherlock's ribs, eliciting a soft gasp from the thin detective.

"Sebastian? You can begin." Milverton sounded excited, and a sense of foreboding settled over Sherlock-

Then screams filled the tunnel, John's screams, agonized and terrified, full of the same pain Sherlock remembered hearing from his blogger when Moriarty had slashed his arms open mercilessly.

And Sherlock's brain short-circuited.

"No... Please!" John cried, then let out another chilling scream. "Sherlock!"

He kept screaming. Moran might be electrocuting him, or slowly ripping him apart, or anything; it was hard to tell. All that was obvious was that John was surely about to be killed.


	6. Spill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a desperate trade, and the situation starts to completely fall apart...

"John!" Sherlock cried, gasping at the pain that seared across his chest as he did so. He fought against Milverton, trying to sit up, trying to get to his friend. "JOHN!"  


Milverton was laughing as Sherlock tried to fight him off. The detective felt another rib break, but he was past the point of caring, his terror that he was getting John killed overriding all other thoughts. The only thing on which he was focused was the sound of his best friend being tortured. Tears filled his eyes. This couldn't be happening!  


"Alright Seb," Milverton called. "That's enough, shut him up!"  


The screams stopped then, cut off with a choked gasp. Sherlock froze. "John?" he called down the tunnel, choking on the name.  


"Oh shut it, he can't hear you," Milverton said, shifting his foot to Sherlock's hand and pressing down fiercely. Sherlock gasped at the unexpected pain. "So where's Mycroft, dear Sherlock?"  


Sherlock felt himself being pulled into a standing position and winced. Milverton lifted him so their faces were just centimeters apart. "Tell me where he is."  


"You might as well kill me," Sherlock hissed. "Because I'm never going to hand over my brother."  


Milverton growled and dropped him into his chair, grabbing the acid bottle off the table, and pouring some slowly onto Sherlock's leg. They both watched as the acid ate through his trousers, gradually bringing the pain shooting through his nerves and making the tears in his eyes escape.  


But still Sherlock kept silent, anger and stubbornness reminding him not to let them win. He had to save Mycroft now, and especially since he might have lost his chance to save John, he couldn't lose another person he cared about.  


"Oh don't look so distraught, we didn't kill your precious pet," Milverton leered at him. "Though we can, unless you tell us where Mycroft is."  


Then, as if on cue, the screaming started again, louder this time. "Please," John sobbed. "Sherlock!"  


At that moment, Sherlock felt as if his heart physically stopped. His breathing hitched. "Parliament," he blurted before he could consider the matter, his vision blurring from more humiliating tears. "He's in a meeting in the Houses of Parliament. That's all I know."  


"Thank you," Milverton said with a smirk and turned from him. Sherlock crumpled in the chair, all the limited strength he'd had leaving him. He had just traded Mycroft for John...  


"Where's John? I've told you what you wanted, so he's of no use to you now." His voice wavered. Please let him go, please.  


"No he isn't, and neither are you." Moran reappeared from the shadows suddenly. He and Milverton exchanged a look charged with malice and cunning. "Everything is ready, I just have to put it there. About time you got him to talk."  


"About time you got back," Milverton retorted. "Though the timing has worked out surprisingly well."  


Moran grinned fiercely, pacing around Sherlock, reminding him rather strangely of a caged tiger. "Leave him here?"  


"That's the idea," Milverton replied, pulling zip ties from his pockets. "We've got more important work to do."  


Sherlock didn't have the strength to protest as they tied him securely to the chair, which he now noted was bolted to the ground. He watched, as if from the wrong end of a telescope, while they left him alone in the tunnel.  


"John?" he called uncertainly when they were gone, looking into the darkness in the direction of those terrible cries. "John. Please answer."  


But instead of hearing John's voice calling back to him, calm and confident like the soldier he was, Sherlock was met with horrifyingly still silence.  


 

* * *

  


In the cab, John was startled when his phone rang. Apparently Lestrade had awoken.  


"Hey, Greg, what's happening?"  


"John, are you alright?" Lestrade sounded... panicked. "Where are you?"  


"I'm in a cab, why? Did you see my text? Has something happened to Sherlock?"  


"Are you certain you're okay? Because Sherlock is under the impression they've captured you."  


John froze. "What?" he exclaimed, aghast. "I'm fine; why does he think that? How did they make him of all people believe that?"  


"I don't know, but somehow they have some recording or something. You're yelling your head off in it, and Sherlock's ... Well, John, he sounds terrified."  


"A recording? How...?" He paused, frowning. "Maybe it's from that time Moriarty captured us. I was tortured then, they could have been recording that."  


"I don't know, John, but however they did it, it's making Sherlock do whatever they want."  


John stiffened in surprise. "You don't mean he gave up where ever Mycroft is?"  


Lestrade sighed, making a loud rush of static over the phone. "Yeah, he did. Look, John, I know you and Sherlock haven't exactly been on the best of terms lately, but he really seemed worried about you. Are you on your way there?"  


John hesitated, wondering at the revelation about Sherlock. "Yes, I'm almost there. Listen, have you tried to get in touch with Mycroft? Whatever Moran and Milverton are planning, we need to warn him."  


"I've tried, but even his assistant whatever-her-name-is can't get him to answer. Need me to meet you at the Tube stop? You said in your text-"  


"Yeah, just bring backup to Parliament. I don't know what they're going to do, but something is going to happen there soon. I'll get Sherlock out and meet you."  


"Alright, you should be good once you get into the tunnel. Moran and Milverton left Sherlock there alone, so if you're careful, you can get him out hopefully with no trouble."  


"Thanks." John hung up and leaned back in the backseat of the cab, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.  


So Sherlock thought John was being tortured, and gave up his own brother to stop it. Why?  


 

* * *

  


"John," Sherlock whispered, pulling unsuccessfully at the chair, trying to break the zip ties. All he managed to accomplish, however, was make his wrists very sore. So he kept calling for John instead, despite his broken ribs and the pain they were causing his lungs. "John, please answer me."  


He was shaking, he realized, and immediately tried to regain control of himself. But he couldn't seem to stop; his mind was elsewhere. Mycroft, he thought, I need to find John and get to Mycroft. Maybe it is possible to save them both still. Yet the echoes of what they had done to John were still reverberating in his mind, John's broken pleas and cries making Sherlock's heart clench.  


"I'm sorry," he whispered, lowering his head.  


 

* * *

  


John cursed under his breath. Lestrade had sent him an email with the video feed attached, a response to a demand John was rapidly starting to regret making. He watched as Sherlock was tied to a chair and left, probably for dead. He couldn't tear his eyes from the screen, especially when Sherlock started to try to break free from the chair and - was... was he crying?  


Terror ripped through John. Sherlock was breaking, Mycroft was in danger, the whole situation was crumbling.  


"Hang on, Sherlock, I'm coming."  


 

* * *

  


Sherlock felt like he might be passing out, but in such a dark tunnel, it was hard to tell if his vision was failing or not. But he felt dizzy and lightheaded, so it was likely he was in fact losing consciousness.  


"Sherlock!"  


His head snapped back up, eyes darting all over the tunnel, seeking the source of that voice. "John?" he stammered.  


There he was, Sherlock thought as relief flooded through him. John appeared out of the darkness, racing toward him, a relieved smile fighting to stay off his face. He looked completely unharmed, which confused Sherlock. But he had thought-  


"Sherlock, it's okay, you're safe now," John's voice was reassuring and firm, as he dropped to his knees next to the chair, and Sherlock found himself believing every syllable. "You okay? Let's get you out of here."  


"John, are you alright?" His voice was hoarse and it hurt to talk so gently, but he ignored the pain and tried to reach out for his flatmate. "I thought they hurt you..."  


John carefully broke the zip ties, using a pocket knife he produced from seemingly nowhere. He laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder carefully, the fingers of his other hand brushing away the wetness on Sherlock's cheeks. "I'm alright, Sherlock, what you heard wasn't me."  


Sherlock leaned forward, wanting to hear John's heartbeat to truly believe it, but John just wrapped his arms around him and helped him up. "Come on," he instructed. "Let's go."  


"John, I need to get to Mycroft," Sherlock managed to say past the aching in his throat and lungs. It was getting more and more difficult to breathe. "I... I gave him up. I need to stop them..."  


John's arms tightened around him. "Lestrade's already on his way. He can take care of it-"  


"But I need to save him-" Sherlock's vision was definitely blurring; he could tell now that they were making their way to the escalator out of the Tube. His thoughts were becoming disjointed, and suddenly, the ground rushed up to meet him.  


 

* * *

  


John cursed under his breath as Sherlock suddenly slipped out of his grip and collapsed on the tile floor. He caught him as best he could, managing to keep his head from hitting the ground.  


"Sherlock," he called, gently slapping his face. "Wake up, I can't have you fainting. You might have a concussion. Sherlock!"  


Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, then he was looking back up at John. John sighed and helped him up again. But before they could keep moving, Sherlock stiffened.  


"Wait stop," he choked. "Wait, hold on John."  


"What is it?" John was getting nervous. The longer they stayed down here, the less time they would have to get to Mycroft.  


Sherlock bent over and seized some small something off the ground, spinning it in his fingers. Then he pulled away from John and turned to face him fully. John's eyes instantly flickered to his flatmate's hands. He was holding a wire, covered in red plastic.  


"They're going to blow him up," Sherlock whispered, fury in his voice.


	7. Goodbye, John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's only goal is to save his brother, no matter the cost... even if the cost is his own life...

They staggered to the street together, and before John could do anything but blink up at the impressive, monolithic figure of Big Ben before them, Sherlock was off, halfway across the street already. And like a shot, John was after him.  


"Where do you think you're going?" John demanded, darting in front of him and cutting him off. "Sherlock, you need to go to the hospital-"  


"No," Sherlock snapped, breathing hard. "I need to get to my brother. Moran and Milverton have surely planted that bomb already; I can diffuse it."  


"Sherlock you can't! You need-"  


"I can do this," Sherlock said dismissively, not looking at John, eyes fixed on Parliament, just past Big Ben.  


"No, wait, Sherlock," John implored, clutching at his arm and spinning him about to face him again. "What do you think you're doing? You can't go in there!"  


"I have to," Sherlock replied calmly, his steel-colored eyes cold and hard. "That bomb has to be found."  


"But what if you don't make it in time?" John demanded. "I could go instead, I can diffuse it-"  


"No," Sherlock stated flatly, eyes dropping to lock with John's, nearly burning a hole with his intense gaze. "People need you, John."  


John stared at him with a look of total incomprehension. "What?"  


But Sherlock just gave a rueful, almost self-deprecating smile in response. "People don't need a freak like me."  


"Sherlock..." John tried again to pull his injured flatmate back onto the pavement. "You don't have to do this."  


"Isn't that what friends do? Protect the people they care about?"  


John just stared at him, lips parted in horror. This could not be happening, it wasn't fair; he had just gotten Sherlock back. Sherlock managed another smile, then forced his arm out of John's grasp.  


"Goodbye, John."  


And he was gone, across the street and into the building, before John could try to stop him again.  


 

* * *

  


Mycroft was only halfway paying attention to this meeting, as important as it was. His mind kept returning to other matters, mainly what was happening to his brother. He was desperately worried, but was virtually trapped here until this was adjourned.  


Suddenly, just as he was about to stand up and speak his own part, the fire alarms went off, lights blaring and sirens wailing. The other government officials jumped and looked around in confusion, then began to hurry out of the room, only pausing to seize their ridiculously posh coats and coffees. Mycroft followed, eyes darting everywhere. Something was strange about this. He knew he had been sent that email about Sherlock for a reason, but had been too busy to understand why Moran would want him to see. Now, Mycroft was starting to understand that this whole thing had been about him rather than his little brother, despite the kidnapping.  


"Mycroft!"  


Mycroft turned as the rest of the meeting turned down another hallway and came face to face with Sherlock. The younger Holmes looked terrible, eyes bloodshot, hands completely destroyed by what seemed to be some chemical, bruises and cuts all over him. Mycroft could tell by the way he held himself that something else was wrong, broken ribs probably. Whatever torture Sherlock had been subjected to, it had clearly taken a toll.  


"Sherlock," Mycroft stepped forward, concern washing through him. "What are you doing here?"  


"You need to get out of the building, Mycroft," Sherlock gasped. "I pulled the fire alarm, but listen. Don't let anyone in this building until I call John to tell him it's safe. And especially don't let him come inside, though he'll be trying."  


"Sherlock, what's going-?"  


"Not now! Just get out, stay out, and keep John out as well, alright?"  


Mycroft nodded automatically. This had something to do with Sherlock's kidnapping, obviously, but he was at a loss as to what was going on here in Parliament. Whatever it was, it was clearly scaring Sherlock. Mycroft hadn't seen that look in his brother's eyes, not really, since the day he had fallen out of the tree because Mycroft dared the little six-year-old to climb to the top. His eyes were wide with terror and vulnerability, just like they had been the instant before the branch had snapped and he had tumbled...  


"Sherlock, let me help you," Mycroft said softly, barely audible over the fire alarms.  


"No, Mycroft," Sherlock shook his head. "Just get out, I can do this."  


"Are you sure?"  


"Would I say that if I weren't?"  


Mycroft hesitated, looking his brother up and down, horrified by his acid burns, then sighed and nodded grudgingly.  


"Just make sure I don't have to explain something unpleasant to Mummy."  


 

* * *

  


Sherlock left him then, reassured for the most part that Mycroft would do as he had asked. Meanwhile, he had another thing to worry about: finding that bomb before a great landmark of London was destroyed. Now, where would Moran and Milverton have put the bomb? If their goal was to kill Mycroft, surely it would be near his meeting room. He dashed into said meeting room and scanned it. No, this was too obvious, and they couldn't have snuck it in here anyway.  


He returned to the hallway, panting from exertion and pain. He wouldn't be able to do this much longer; his ribs felt as if they were about to shred through his left lung.  


Bomb, come on, where was it?  


There. A janitor's closet, easy to access, right next to Mycroft's meeting room. A logical and simple placement for a pile of wires and death. Sherlock yanked the door open, relieved to find it unlocked, and froze. A mass of wires and Semtex faced him, hooked up to a cell phone detonator. He dropped to his knees, eyes scanning it, trying to decide how best to disarm it. A red wire poked up above the others tantalizingly, and Sherlock reached out toward it, hoping to diffuse it before it exploded.  


And then, just as his mangled fingers closed around the wire as best they could, the cell phone's screen lit up. It was ringing, a blocked number.  


"Nice try Sherlock," said the phone in Moran's voice as it continued to ring. "Nice try Sherlock, nice try Sherlock..."  


Sherlock vaulted to his feet, heart in his throat. He closed his eyes.  


Sorry, John.

 

* * *

 

The explosion sent shockwaves across London, breaking the windows of buildings closest to Parliament, debris shattering the nearest clock face of Big Ben's clock tower, rocketing into the walls of Westminster Abbey, and splashing into the Thames River or landing on boats. Fire spread and screams echoed across the city. Emergency vehicles raced to the wreckage, and bystanders swarmed the nearest safe streets. Helicopters whirled overhead, and the city despaired. Among the confusion, several government officials slipped away in ambulances, burned and cut but alive. DI Lestrade was one of the first responders, and found Mycroft Holmes almost instantly, crumpled on the ground beneath Big Ben, in shock. As Lestrade bent over him, hand resting gently on his shoulder, he could faintly make out what Mycroft was saying, whispering like a mantra.  


"Forgive me, baby brother..."  


And across the street, hidden in the shelter of the Tube station's entrance, relatively uninjured from the explosion, stood John Watson, watching the chaos. He gave a shuddering breath and suddenly found himself falling to his knees, burying his head in his arms. One of the last things Sherlock Holmes had said to him echoed in his mind tauntingly, reminding him of his failure.  


_"People don't need a freak like me."_  


"I need you," John whispered, shoulders shaking. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry."


	8. Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John deals with the fallout of Sherlock's actions, but Moran and Milverton are still out there somewhere...

Sherlock vaulted to his feet, heart in his throat. He closed his eyes.

_Sorry, John._

He turned and ran, knowing that even with fully-functioning fingers he would be unable to disarm the bomb in time. But with still almost-fully-functioning legs (he was weak overall, so they weren't in top form) he might be able to get a safe distance away before it was too late.

He sprinted down the hallway, turned a corner, flew down a flight of stairs, entered a new corridor, then spotted an exit sign. The green light and cartoonish running man beckoned to him, and he half-smiled in relief. His legs felt uninjured and swift as he made his way, as quickly as his screaming lungs could take him, toward the sign, reached for the door's handle before him, and pushed it open to

 

* * *

 

John watched Lestrade hurry toward him, but didn't react to the man, other than let his eyes follow his approach.

"Anything? Did you find him?" John asked hoarsely when he was within earshot, hands tightening into fists.

"Not yet," Lestrade sighed, sitting down next to where John was sat, leaning against the wall of the Tube station. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I need to be going back over there to help..."

"So why are you over here then?"

"Checking on you," Lestrade shrugged. "Mycroft seems like he's in shock."

_"I'm in shock, look, I've got a blanket!"_

"I don't care about Mycroft right now!" John snapped. "All this started because of him!"

A beat of silence passed, then John sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. "Alright so I don't really mean that. I don't think." He buried his face in his hands. "I don't know."

Lestrade laid a hand on his arm. "I know mate-"

"Moran," John said suddenly. "Milverton. They did this, Greg, we have to find them-"

"John-"

"This is their fault," his voice broke. "They did this, they killed Sherlock! They hurt him and then they... They killed him..."

He turned away from Lestrade, breaths hitching. The Detective Inspector stood up, patted John's shoulder, and left him there alone. John wiped his eyes angrily. Now wasn't the time to break down. He had to find Moran and Milverton and ... and what. If he could get away with it, he'd like to rip them apart with his bare hands. But that might be a bit illegal.

_"Not good?"_  
_"A bit not good, yeah."_

He stood unsteadily, ears still ringing from the explosion. Involuntarily, his eyes fixed back on the pile of rubble, what used to be the Houses of Parliament. It had a massive hole blown out of it, over half of it gone, replaced by chunks of stone and metal and glass and death. Somewhere in that pile, John knew, was Sherlock. Or rather, his body.

John flinched at the thought. He would have to bury him, see his grave. How was he going to make it through that? And he hadn't even gotten to apologize to Sherlock for what he had said to him, how he'd called him a freak and all those other things. John hadn't believed Sherlock cared! What was wrong with him? How could he have thought that?

Of course, hindsight was always crystal clear. It was obvious Sherlock had cared about him now, but before that John hadn't been sure. He was appalled at himself that it had taken Sherlock being tortured and forced to think John was as well to realize the consulting detective actually cared.  
  
John slowly crossed the street toward the group of emergency vehicles. Mycroft was leaning heavily on his usual umbrella. He looked around at John as he neared.

"John," he greeted softly. "Can you tell me what happened?"

It was definitely a bad, bad situation if Mycroft Holmes was asking John what was going on. He sighed and stepped closer. It was best to be straight with Mycroft; the man wasn't one for glossing over or sugar-coating things.

"Sherlock was taken by Sebastian Moran and Charles Milverton, as you know, once they escaped from prison. We watched from the video feed and realized this was about you somehow. But by the time I realized where Sherlock was being held, thanks to clues he gave me, he had already been ... er, tortured to a point that he was forced to give up your location. I got him out of there, but he figured out what they were going to do to you and," John swallowed. "He ran off to get you..."

He didn't realize he was crying until he noticed Mycroft looking pointedly away, turmoil behind his own eyes. Eyes so much like Sherlock, so penetrating and sharp.

_Sherlock. I'm sorry._

 

* * *

 

It was afternoon now, and there was still so much to do. The daylight hours were drawing to a close, and it felt like it had been the longest day of John's life. Even though it had only been fourteen hours since the explosion. The emergency crews and volunteers had worked all day to try to clear up the rubble, but there was still so much left. A few people had been pulled from the wreckage, some wounded, some ... worse. None of them, however, were Sherlock.

There was no sign of Moran or Milverton yet, according to some man whom Mycroft had called. People were out looking, though the press had not been informed that the fugitives were the cause of the explosion. The press had not been told anything, in fact, simply that the bombing was being investigated and they would be informed when there was something more substantial to tell them. By this, John surmised the press would be kept out of the loop until Moran and Milverton were captured again. All John wanted to do, on the other hand, was find those two and make them pay himself.

He sighed. Thinking about it wasn't going to help, of course, though thinking was all he could do. He had been forbidden from assisting in the search for them. So instead of haring about London to find Moran and Milverton himself, John shoved his hands in his pockets and made his way to the Diogenes Club.

Mycroft was there in the private room, just as John had hoped. When he noticed him, the elder Holmes - John couldn't bring himself to think him of as the only Holmes yet - simply nodded and pulled out a second tumbler from the cupboard. John nodded back and took the proffered whiskey gratefully.

Mycroft sat down across from him, but neither spoke for a long time, hardly looked at each other. John began to wonder why he had come, but perhaps it was just that he had finally remembered today who Mycroft really was, deep underneath the cold diplomatic exterior. He was, ultimately, Sherlock's big brother.

"It wasn't your fault," John murmured suddenly, as Mycroft poured yet another glass for himself. "You know that, don't you?"

"No, I don't," Mycroft snapped. John jumped as he slammed down the bottle on the table next to him. "I don't know that."

John shifted, leaning forward slightly. "Mycroft-"

But the other just shook his head, and John fell silent, sensing he needed to speak without interruption. "I always knew Sherlock would end up in some hopeless situation like this. His profession practically requires... required it. But I never thought ... that I would be the reason..."

He trailed off and just looked over at John with a horribly open expression. His eyes finally showed all the aching pain, guilt, and grief he was feeling. It was the most vulnerable John had ever seen Mycroft Holmes, and he found himself wishing desperately to never see that again.

"It was my fault too," John said, looking away, trying to push past his emotions. "I caused this as much as you."

He set his glass of whiskey down and leaned forward in his chair, resting his face in his palms. "How do you do it, normally, Mycroft? Keep your feelings from hurting you so much, all the time?"

_"I've always been able to divorce myself from feelings."_  
  
Mycroft shook his head, scoffing slightly. "You think I'm actually able to do that? Concerning my brother?" He chuckled derisively. "You're deluded."

_"Because you're an idiot."_

John stood abruptly. He couldn't take this anymore. Instead of being a slight comfort, or whatever he had hoped this would be, talking to Mycroft was definitely not helping.

He paused at the door and looked back. Mycroft was watching him silently, and John thought he looked faintly embarrassed at his emotional outburst. It would have been mild for most normal people, but for a Holmes, that had practically been a mental breakdown. John sighed and forced himself to hold the other man's gaze.

"It's alright."

No, nothing was alright, because Sherlock was dead. But for now emotions, even or maybe especially from Mycroft, were alright.

_It's all fine._

 

* * *

 

John got out to the street in front of the Diogenes Club and hesitated. He couldn't imagine going back to Baker Street tonight. Oh no, Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't called her, so she didn't know about Sherlock... Surely she knew about the bombing; practically everyone on the planet did, but she was in the dark about the kidnapping. John had seen no need to worry her when there had still been a chance they could save Sherlock. Now, however, how he was supposed to tell her the truth was completely beyond him.

Alright, so Baker Street was out of the question for now. But John hadn't slept in a day and a half, and he was no Sherlock, so he needed sleep. So where should he go?

Before he could decide, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

_Want to stay over? The sofa's always open. - Greg_

Bless that man.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, night fell over London, and the fires of the explosion died down and the rubble cleared off the roads. Parliament was to be left alone until morning, when the light returned and it could be sorted through and cleared away. The news reports would continue to appear, a new Parliament would be planned and constructed, and life would eventually move on. But for now it was just left until later, unwanted and unlooked-at for now. The ropes labeled "Crime Scene" and "Do Not Cross" stretched about its perimeter, fluttering in the faint breeze, almost as if waving to invite inquisitive or impulsive people to sneak in. Not that anyone was nearby to poke around at this time. No one dared to touch the place.

Therefore there was no one around to witness the rubble shifting.

Sherlock Holmes seemed to have a knack at coming back to life.


	9. Obviously

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft proves himself to actually be a good brother; meanwhile John finally gets to say something he's been wanting to for days...

When Sherlock finally regained consciousness fully it was dark, and he couldn't move. He had woken earlier, tried to fight to stay awake, even called for help a few times, but all the - were those helicopters? - noises above him probably drowned it out. And since it was now clearly night, he didn't attempt the same again, but just lay still and catalogued what had happened and what his injuries were.  


He had a broken leg, definitely, what felt like burns on his chest, side and arms, and possibly had sustained a severe concussion from the impact of the building collapsing on him. Also, his ears were ringing and sounds were muffled, though he hoped that would be temporary. Still, he had been amazingly lucky. Being in a doorway had helped. He supposed, though logic was difficult due to his blurry mind, that it was like what they said about earthquakes and seeking some safety beneath a doorframe.  


Finally, he managed to extricate his arms and push away a long piece of what felt to be a girder, which had been pinning him down. He shifted, trying to decide how deeply he was buried. And oh, that hurt. He exhaled shakily, wincing. He wanted to move, to get out, to find John. But every minute movement seemed to cause agony. Tedious.  


That was when he felt a bulge in his pocket. He mentally shook himself. Of all the uncomfortable things he could be focused on - his burns, his ruined fingers, the fact that he had nearly died in a massive explosion - why this? He slowly worked his hand toward his side, each inch of movement sending searing, white-hot pain shooting through his nerves and making him wince. Finally, he worked the object out and into his hand, where he squinted at it, wondering if what he was seeing in the dim light was what he believed it was.  


Mycroft's mobile phone.  


Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together, trying desperately to fight off the dizziness and obvious signs of a concussion to concentrate. But the pain was worse than the worst of migraines, and all he could remember was his brother saying something about their mother.  


But even then, Sherlock had not been thinking clearly, judgment clouded by his fear for both Mycroft and John. So apparently, Mycroft had slipped the phone into his pocket when he wasn't looking. How his brother had known he would need it, Sherlock wasn't sure, but then again, it was Mycroft, his brilliant older brother.  


"Come on," Sherlock half-whimpered, trying to force his hands to operate the thing. He pressed the numbers slowly, fighting to keep his probably-dying body conscious.  


The other end only rang two and a half times before it was answered, but by then Sherlock felt himself growing so much weaker, so much faster.  


"Sherlock?" He had to strain his ears to hear, as they were still ringing and dulled, half-deaf, but he could still make out the shocked voice.  


"Mycroft, help me," he implored. "I'm still alive, but please... I need your help."  


"Alright, I'll send someone to you," Mycroft was instantly in business mode. "Stay on the phone with me, Sherlock, can you do that?"  


"It hurts," Sherlock forced out, sounding pathetically vulnerable. He hoped Mycroft wouldn't tease him about that later. But who was he kidding? He'd probably never let Sherlock hear the end of it. "Please, Mycroft. I can't get out."  


"It will be fine, just hold on. Just listen to me, don't hang up. Stay awake, Sherlock."  


"Moran? Milverton?" Sherlock asked, vision blurring. It felt like he was spinning. Not good. Stupid concussion. "Where are they?"  


"We'll find them," Mycroft replied. "I have people out looking. Including some of your, ah, assets."  


The homeless network. Trust Mycroft to be resourceful like that. "Thank you."  


"Sherlock? I need you to stay awake, alright?"  


"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered. "This is all my fault."  


"Quiet now, Sherlock, it will be fine."  


Sherlock didn't remember much of the next few minutes, only the sound of his brother's voice, speaking soothingly. Later he would remember only that the rescue vehicles arrived at the wreckage in a record four minutes, during which Sherlock had tried his best to climb to the surface of the rubble, still clinging to the mobile. Before he got close, however, he felt himself passing out, and had the wisdom to keep the phone gripped in his hand tightly, so the rescuers could follow the sound of Mycroft, still talking to him.  


Darkness enfolded him, but he clung to the thought that Mycroft was coming, and that probably meant John was as well.  
  
_John._

 

 

* * *

  


A pinprick of white light was the first thing he was aware of next. He blinked rapidly, and the light solidified into the full moon, far far above him. He was outside then, out of the rubble. So where was John? Where was Mycroft? Were they alright? He had worked so hard to save them; they had to be safe, somewhere near. Where were they? He slowly sat up, despite his injuries, to look around for either of them.  


And moments later, as if he'd read Sherlock's mind, Mycroft was there, his hands gentle on Sherlock's arms.  


"Oh, little brother, what have you gotten yourself into?" he murmured. Sherlock leaned forward, relief flooding through him as he rested his head against Mycroft's chest.  


"You found me," he whispered, for once forsaking his emotionless mask and seeking comfort from his big brother.  


"Of course I did, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice shaking, a rare occasion in itself. "Let's get you to the hospital."  


Sherlock dimly realized he was on a stretcher, and Mycroft lowered him back down, keeping a firm yet tender hand on Sherlock at all times. Strange, unfamiliar faces swam before him, paramedics talking quietly. But Sherlock just let Mycroft speak, for once giving in to the other's constant concern and letting him take care of Sherlock, just as Mummy had once asked.  


"Where's John?" he croaked as they climbed into the ambulance. "Is he alright?"  


Mycroft surveyed him critically. "He is physically fine. But Sherlock, he thinks you're ..."  


Sherlock let his eyelids flutter shut. "Tell him. I need to see him..."  


"It can wait, can't it? John needs to rest, as do you," Mycroft sounded nearly as tired as Sherlock felt, but that didn't stop Sherlock from being his usual stubborn self.  


"I don't care. Call him. I can sleep when I'm dead."  


He heard Mycroft exhale shakily, and it was almost a laugh. "You very nearly were. So please sleep now. You'll see John soon."  


Sherlock felt Mycroft's hand cover his, and he saw the wisdom in the idea. Dangerous with a probable concussion, yes, but at the same time, his wounds needed time to heal, and what better way to pass the time until he saw John again than sleeping? So Sherlock gave in and drifted off while Mycroft watched over him.  


_John_ , Sherlock thought in the last instant of consciousness. _John_.  


 

* * *

  


Sherlock hated hospitals. Stupid, dull, utterly clean places. Too many white, sterile things. And also, no John. Where was he anyway? It was morning now, judging by the light streaming through the window of his room. What day it was, or how long he had been there unconscious, Sherlock wasn't certain. But surely that was enough time for John to have gotten sufficient rest... Unless John had been injured by the explosion. Oh God, and if that was true, it was Sherlock's fault...  


Then a voice outside his room jolted him. A relieved smile spread across his face before he could stop it. Thank goodness his hearing had returned to its former glory.  


"Yeah, I'm John Watson, could you please tell me where Sherlock Holmes' room is?"  


"I'm sorry, sir, only relatives are permitted to-"  


"I'm his flatmate, please, you've got to make an exception!"  


"I... I'm sorry, I-"  


The phone at the desk rang, and Sherlock listened as John paced. The receptionist answered, then her voice quickly grew more and more flustered. Sherlock smirked; good old Mycroft.  


"Yes, sir, I understand... Yes, Mr. Holmes... Absolutely, sir... Sorry for the misunderstanding... Thank you."  


A click as the phone was hung up. He could hear that the receptionist needed to trim her nails; she was never going to get into medical school with claws like that.  


"You can see him, Mr. Watson, he's in the room just there across the hall."  


Doctor Watson, you daft girl. He's a doctor.  


Footsteps, anxious breaths. John.  


"Oh my God, Sherlock!" He raced to the bedside, eyes full of concern as he dropped into the plastic chair next to the bed. "Are you alright? I've been trying to get in here to visit you for hours! Mycroft wouldn't let me in until today, kept insisting you needed to rest..."  


John looked terrible, as if he hadn't slept in years. Slept on Lestrade's sofa last night, second night in a row apparently, so he must have wanted to avoid telling Mrs. Hudson what had happened. Tea for breakfast, but who knew the last time he had eaten anything? He needed a shave as well, and hadn't bothered to comb his hair this morning. Of course, none of that told Sherlock what he really needed to know.  


"Are you?" Sherlock replied, voice hoarse.  


"Do I look alright?" John replied, huffing. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock!"  


He sniffed, looking somewhat distraught, though Sherlock wasn't sure that was the right word. Emotions. He had never really mastered recognizing them, even when they were exhibited in his best friend.  


"I feel fine, though that is undoubtedly the drugs they are pumping into me," Sherlock gestured feebly toward the IV next to his bed.  


John nodded slowly, but neither said anything further. After a few moments of silence, he gave Sherlock a quick once-over, eyes lingering on his chest's bandage-covered burns. Seeing John about to open his mouth, the injured detective began to speak.  


"A few second degree burns, three broken ribs which scraped the left lung, four cracked ribs, a grade 2 concussion, a broken leg. Some momentary hearing loss, but it's mostly gone now," he explained calmly. "They did minor surgery last night to try to reset the broken ribs to keep them away from the lung, so I'm forbidden from exerting myself," he scowled. "And I remember my name and where I live, et cetera, so the concussion is improving. They reset the broken leg and dealt with the burns. I should be out of here in ten days, hopefully."  


He knew he needed to be thorough in his report, since John was a doctor and wouldn't rest until he knew the full extent of Sherlock's wounds. And if Sherlock omitted something, John would find a way to learn of it anyway, so he may as well be honest. In response, John nodded, then picked up Sherlock's chart at the end of his bed and scanned it. Apparently finding it in accordance with Sherlock's story, he replaced it and sighed. Sherlock watched, worried at how tired and upset John looked.  


"How long have I been here?"  


John raised his eyebrows. "Thought you would have deduced that by now. Three days."  


Sherlock nodded. It would explain his hearing having returned; sufficient time had passed for it to heal. They were both silent again, neither really looking at each other, neither really knowing what to say.  


"What about your fingers?" John asked quietly after a few minutes, looking down at Sherlock's mangled appendages. "What did those monsters do to you?"  


"Sulfuric acid," Sherlock replied, grimacing at the memory. "Rather barbaric interrogation method, and not even an effective one."  


John winced in sympathy. Sherlock pursed his lips. He already missed playing the violin... "So they didn't actually capture you?" he asked, to change the subject.  


"No," the doctor shook his head. "Moran must have been recording us in the factory with Moriarty and distorted it so it sounded like I was being tortured. I don't know. But I'm fine."  


Sherlock nodded. "Good."  


"You gave up Mycroft for me," John stated, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"  


Sherlock swallowed. The memory of John calling him a freak came back to him unbidden. Would John believe him now? "I wanted to protect you..."  


Sherlock glanced away, pressing his lips together. "I'm sorry, John."  


John's hand found his, squeezing it gently. "Hey, it's okay, you don't have to apologize for that."  


"No, not for that, and not even for getting blown up," Sherlock corrected quietly, still not looking at him. "For before..."  


John frowned uncomprehendingly. "What do you mean?"  


Sherlock met his eyes again finally. "You're my best friend. I'm ... I'm sorry you thought I didn't care about you..."  


This time, it was John who looked away, blinking. Sherlock waited, unsure of what to say next.  


"You're not a cold-hearted bastard," John whispered. "And you're absolutely not a freak. And I'm so sorry, for everything I said. I wasn't thinking clearly. I was mad and when you didn't talk to me, I just lashed out. I didn't mean any of it. Will you forgive me?"  


My dear John. Sherlock smirked at him, a rather foreign surge of fondness - though it was becoming in less and less foreign with each passing day - flowing through him. "Obviously."


	10. Underestimation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran and Milverton return, finding Sherlock alone and seemingly undefended... And in related news, his drama queen tendencies come in handy...

When Sherlock opened his eyes the next day, John was gone. He looked around in confusion. John had promised to be there when he woke up, so where was he?

He reached for Mycroft's mobile phone, which he hadn't bothered to return. His brother probably already had a replacement anyway.

_You're up to something. SH_

_What makes you think that? JW_

_You promised to be here in the morning. SH_

_Check the time. It's afternoon. Anyway, sorry, but I'm busy. JW_

_John what are you up to? SH_

_Taking care of some unfinished business. JW_

_Be careful. SH_

Sherlock set down the phone shakily. He attributed it to the concussion addling his brain, but suddenly he felt terrified for John. Even without saying it outright, John clearly was on a vendetta.

In other words, he was going after Moran and Milverton.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back on the pillows, staring out the window at the rain, which was pattering gently against the glass. He was bored, why would Mycroft not let him leave? Who cared about his broken leg? There were criminals to be caught, and he did not appreciate being forced to stay here.

A soft knock on his door made him turn his head. "John?" he called.

"Hello, Sherlock," said a someone who was distinctly not John. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Sebastian," he greeted. "To what do I owe this displeasure?"

"We have unfinished business," he smiled wickedly and sat down in the chair meant for John. "You weren't supposed to survive, you know."

"And you've come to finish me off, is that it," Sherlock muttered flatly. "How utterly dull. Where's Charles? I'm sure he could make this a bit more engaging."

"He's occupying the nurse right now so we can chat. He'll be along, then we can have some fun." Moran looked as though he was having the time of his life; his eyes glinted with a sort of delighted malice.

As if on cue, Milverton stepped into the room, smirking. "Well the nurse is currently admiring the inside of a broom cupboard," he announced. "So, Sherlock, it looks like we have you to ourselves for a while."

"What do you want? Don't say revenge, I implore you. Honestly, can the criminals not use some creativity now and then?"

As Moran and Milverton glanced at each other, Sherlock winced. The pain of his burns was coming back to him, which confused him. He had painkillers being pumped into him, did he not? So what was going on? He pushed away the burgeoning sense of worry and focused on how to alert John to the presence of his two enemies. If he could just reach his phone...

"We have unfinished business with you, Sherlock," Moran replied. "Namely, finishing you off."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably as Moran leaned closer, his slightly fetid breath washing over the helpless detective. He pressed a hand over Sherlock's still-weak ribs and exerted pressure. Sherlock refused to flinch even as a jagged shot of pain shot through his chest.

"Ah, too doped up on pain meds, are you?" Milverton grinned, pulling a long syringe from his pocket. "Well, we have something to contribute to that cocktail."

Outside in the hallway, raised, anxious voices sounded. The two criminals looked decidedly nervous when they heard them, Sherlock noted with satisfaction. Meanwhile, he was carefully inching his hand toward the mobile on the bedside table. He needed to reach John...

"Come on, before they find the nurse," Milverton growled. He peered out the window in the door. "Security is here. They know something's going on."

"So give me the syringe and we can get out of here." Moran sounded faintly exasperated.

Milverton handed it over and paced around the room, watching the events unfold by the bed, glancing occasionally toward the closed door.

"You didn't really think this was about killing your brother did you?" Moran hissed in Sherlock's ear. "God, I must have underestimated your intellect."

"What was it about then?" Sherlock glared at him.

The look in Moran's eyes could have cut steel. "To burn his heart out. And as you now know, his heart is you."

He turned away from Sherlock and carefully inserted the syringe into the IV. The consulting detective didn't need to ask what was in it; obviously it would be potassium chloride, and it would stop his heart cold in minutes.

Sorry John, he thought yet again as he watched Moran empty the plunger into the IV. So sorry.

But the chilling stillness of death did not come, even as Sherlock braced himself for it. Instead, he just felt the faintly stinging ache he had been for the past several minutes. Was he not receiving enough pain killers...?

Oh. Of course.

Sherlock coughed and choked theatrically, internally laughing as both Milverton and Moran watched him like a hawk. He took rapid but subtle breaths, successfully making his heart rate quicken. By his calculations, he had approximately 180 more seconds before it would become impossible to fake dying.

So he continued to "die" dramatically, manipulating the heart monitor and his audience equally.

After a solid minute (honestly, how interesting was it to watch someone slowly dying from a lethal injection, even if you were a psychopath?), Moran and Milverton seemed satisfied they had fulfilled their purpose. They turned to leave, but Sherlock gave a feeble-sounding cough.

"Sebastian," he choked. "You're not the... only one who underestimated someone's intellect."

"What do you mean?" Moran snapped. But Milverton seemed to realize what was wrong, and whirled to face the doorway.

"You didn't reckon on me," John Watson said with a fierce grin, and punched Milverton in the face.

A blur of motion later, in which an excessive amount of curses were spilled by Sebastian Moran, Sherlock looked up to find both John and Lestrade with grins on their faces, and Moran and Milverton with handcuffs on their wrists.

"Be thankful," John spat, yanking Moran's head back. "That I didn't simply rip you to pieces for what you've done."

"Come on you two," Lestrade said, a hint of underlying fury in the tone of his voice. "You are under arrest for the kidnapping, torture and attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes, and bombing of the Houses of Parliament. Not to mention the half dozen people you killed then."

"Detective Inspector," Sherlock interrupted as the other man began to lead the bracelet-ed duo from the room. "I'd rather you kept my name out of this."

"But Sherlock-" Lestrade looked faintly bewildered.

"The bombing should be sufficient, and I'd rather not have my name tied to this. Mycroft will likely have similar sympathies." He smirked. "So enjoy the credit, Lestrade."

Lestrade flashed him a smile, gave a nod to John, and exited. Sherlock watched through the door's small window as they rejoined the rest of Scotland Yard, or at least Donovan and Dimmock, and led the criminals from the hospital.

"Case closed," Sherlock chuckled.

"Sherlock," John breathed, striding to the bedside. "You alright?"

"Fine, as you well know," Sherlock grinned. "How did you do it?"

John leaned over and picked up the IV tube. It dangled loose, unconnected to Sherlock's arm. Just as John had planned. He smiled faintly.

"Well, firstly I disconnected this from your arm. Are you in any pain? We can get you a new IV if you are, because, well..." He nodded to the abandoned syringe on the floor. "This one's a bit infected."

Sherlock shrugged. "I've dealt with worse pain. But how did you know they'd come?"

"You make it sound like it's such a difficult thing to figure out for an average mind," John rolled his eyes. "It was obvious, at least to me. Mycroft told me they were tapping my phone, probably for this specific purpose, so I made you think I was leaving to track them down. I figured they'd take the opportunity to come finish you off."

"You lured them here so you could corner them," Sherlock said in a rather wondering tone.

John half-shrugged. "Elementary," he winked.

"Shut up," Sherlock laughed. They fell silent then, looking at each other. After a moment of this, John leaned forward and gave Sherlock a tentative hug. Sherlock tensed at first, then relaxed into the embrace.

"John, if I ever become too arrogant, just remind me of this case," he murmured. "Maybe then I'll remember I'm not the only intelligent one in our flat."

John chuckled and pulled back, taking a seat in the chair next to the bed. "I'll keep that in mind."

He smiled at Sherlock fondly. Sherlock smiled back. The look that passed between them spoke volumes.

It was over, they were both safe, Moran and Milverton were in jail, and despite everything that happened, Sherlock and John were as close as ever.


	11. Epilogue

_Guess who's home?_  
_Obviously, that would be Sherlock. It's insane how childish he can be when he isn't allowed to get out of bed... And before you guys ask, yes, we made up. Having a building collapse on top of a friend will kind of nudge people toward reconciliation, you know._  
_Anyway, since his ribs and burns have mostly healed, Sherlock finally is allowed to come home, and even take cases. Just no sprinting after criminals, I have a consent form! Personally, I'm just happy to be out of the hospital._  
_Keep an eye on the Milverton-Moran trial too. It's going well... ;)_  
_Also, Baker Street be warned. Sherlock got a skin graft to repair his fingers, so the late-night concerts aren't going away. (Sorry Mrs. H!)_  
_Aaaand I have to go. Sherlock's trying to put something unpleasant in the kettle!_  
**12 comments**  
John, honestly. Are you not going to go into detail about anything? No one will have any clue what has happened! And it was an autologous full-thickness skin graft, thank you so much for your specificity.   
Sherlock Holmes 14 August 11:53  
I'll write it up soon, I just had to leave and STOP YOU FROM DESTROYING THE KETTLE.  
John Watson 14 August 11:54  
The kettle is fine! The buttered intestines wouldn't have done that much damage, anyway.  
Sherlock Holmes 14 August 11:55  
You amaze me.  
John Watson 14 August 11:56  
Thank you, John. I'm flattered.  
Sherlock Holmes 14 August 11:57  
SHUT UP. IT WAS SARCASM.  
John Watson 14 August 11:58  
I'm aware. I replied with sarcasm. It seems I'm not the only one who has trouble identifying such language and syntax. Additionally, is your keyboard stuck on caps lock?  
Sherlock Holmes 14 August 11:59  
Shut. Up. Sherlock.  
John Watson 14 August 12:00  
Make me!  
Sherlock Holmes 14 August 12:01  
You two are adorable! LOL!  
Harry Watson 14 August 12:14  
When's the wedding? ;)  
Mike Stamford 14 August 12:33  
John, fetch me my revolver.  
Sherlock Holmes 14 August 12:35

And all was as it should be at 221B.

FIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This concludes the Riddles in the Dark series, and I would love to know what you thought of it! ~ SAF


End file.
